


Weep Little Lion Man

by RhineGold



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Everett Young is a Bad-Decision Dinosaur, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhineGold/pseuds/RhineGold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rush makes his way back to Destiny post-Justice. Young is a Bad-Decision Dinosaur.</p><p>Also known as 'The Story Where Young Accidentally a Whole Rape'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More posting of Old Shame. Written for TinyNotepad, partially inspired by discussing Muir_Wolf’s ‘Never Let You Go (Again).’ I gave Young a hard-core idiot ball in this story and I am ashamed of my character assassination. This was originally lovingly nicknamed 'The Orphan Verse' for lack of a name, until it was saddled with this terribly cliche one. Sorry.

He’d come to regret his decision almost immediately. The satisfaction of having done Rush in soon gave way to a gnawing feeling of guilt, for the empty quarters at the end of the long hall, for the way Eli stared at him, eyes shadowed, expression cold, for the responsibility he felt every time something went wrong that no one could fix. When a power coupling goes down, the attempts to reroute the power prove ineffective. The line explodes, badly wounding Scott and two civilian engineers.

When the ship arrives on their sensors, it is a blessed relief. Rush is alive. Alive and whole and battered and bruised and utterly haunted. His eyes, always dark, seem black now. He is malnourished, but barely eats; exhausted, but never sleeps. TJ finds him working all hours of the day and night. He collapses twice. Both times, she forces liquids into him, strapping him to the bed until he is begging to be released. When she does, the process begins again.

Finally, Young intercepts him in the hallway where he is leaning exhaustedly against the wall, nodding at the report Brody is giving about the weapons array. With all these people around, there is no polite way for Rush to refuse his request to meet him in his quarters. There is no mistaking the fear on his face, but Rush allows him to lead him, one hand just above his elbow. He doesn't release him until they are in the room. Young propels him towards the sofa and turns to close and lock the door.

When the lock engages, Rush clenches his hands together in his lap. He stares at the floor, and Young realizes he is trying to hide the way his shoulders are shaking. 

“…I’ve almost finished debugging the secondary sensors…” Rush murmurs quietly, voice reedy and tense. “I only need a little longer with the weapons array. We’ve isolated one of the three problem areas. Once the repairs are complete, we can proceed to the next section.”

“When was the last time … you slept, Rush?” He asks softly, sitting down on the smooth coffee table. Their knees brush and the smaller man jerks back, arms flattening against the couch before he composes himself.

“…I’m fine.” Rush replies quietly. As though the thought has just occurred to him, his head snaps up again, eyes widening. “I’m doing my best, Colonel…” He begins, and Young is not imagining the tremor in his voice. “I've completed a third of the list already. I’ll have the rest done shortly.”

The list. He remembers the list Volker and Brody drew up weeks ago, things to accomplish in the foreseeable future. Hundreds of things and Rush has crashed through a third of them in three weeks.

“I will finish it,” Rush whispers again, and Young realizes with a start that Rush is _pleading_.

Gently, very slowly, Young raises his hand to cup Rush’s cheek. The man’s face is covered in stubble, regrowing now after TJ shaved him during his last collapse. Smoothing his fingertips over the cheekbone he finds, Young murmurs gently, “Rush… You don’t have to prove your worth to me by killing yourself with work.”

Brown eyes search his own, and finally, Rush nods silently. Deliberately, he unclasps his hands, rubbing his palms on his jeans, closing his eyes against Young’s touch. Rush opens his mouth, tongue stealing out to moisten his pink lips and Young can’t resist the impulse to close the distance between them.

The other man stills under the kiss, body completely rigid. His lips are rough, pitted and scarred from being bitten one too many times. Still, he tastes sweet and warm, and there is something heart-clenchingly virginal about the way Rush shies back when he releases him. There was a time, Young knows, when Rush would have punched him for this trespass, but the mathematician just stares at his knees, face flushed, breathing sharp and deep.

Young runs a hand through his growing curls and sighs. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Rush…” He murmurs.

“You won’t have to,” Rush replies, voice tight.

“I want to touch you…” He answers, realizing it only as the words come tumbling out. “Rush, I want you. Here, on this ship. With me. Now.”

“…I’m not stopping you.”

~*~

He carries Rush to his bed. Always small, the man is painfully lightweight now, his ordeal and the weeks of stress having trimmed even more weight and bulk off of his slight figure. Young attributes his trembling to nervousness and exhaustion. He is determined to give Rush this - to experience this together.

When he urges him up between kisses in order to strip his shirts off, he can’t help but suck in a breath at the expanse of Rush’s skin. He is lithe and lovely, if a bit too thin. His skin is soft and his nipples a nice dusky colour. When Young’s hands hesitate on his jeans, Rush reaches down to lightly touch his arm.

“…What do you want me to do?” He whispers, voice even more strained now, expression averted.

“I want you to enjoy this, Rush. Let me do everything. Please.”

Nodding, Rush lays back and closes his eyes. When Young unfastens his jeans, Rush lifts his hips to make it easier, but not by much. He curls his hand to his chest, not gripping his shoulder, just letting his hand twist into the hollow of his throat. The other falls limp and unresisting beside them on the bed.

When Young’s fingers gently trace around him, Rush shivers, a soft mewling sound strangling in his throat. Young squeezes more of the precious bottle of lotion onto his fingers, tracing Rush’s cheek with his other hand. “Have you ever…?” He whispers, drawing the man’s gaze to him at last.

Mutely, Rush shakes his head, eyebrows drawn up in an expression that is undeniably apprehensive.

“It’s okay,” Young murmurs. “I know what I’m doing.” When Rush swallows and shakily nods, Young hesitates, not quite breeching him with his fingertips. “…Do you… Do you want me to stop?” Despite himself, the last bit comes out as a husky growl, the idea of stopping already so distasteful at this point.

Rush swallows again and shakes his head faintly. “…It’s fine…”

He grimaces, though, biting his lip when Young begins to stretch him open. When his spine tenses and his hands clench, Young leans down to kiss him again, trying to ignore how soft Rush’s penis is in comparison to the tension in his body. He will come around, he tells himself. He’s worried it will hurt, but Young will show him it will not. Rush will finally see how much he’s come to care for him. This will be good for both of them.

~*~

He takes Rush to his bed nearly every night. Some nights they are too exhausted to do anything but sleep, and often he finds himself leading a half-dazed Rush to his rooms, or carrying the unconscious man. He forces Rush to eat and to sleep, coming to stand disapprovingly behind him until Rush, flustered and tense, excuses himself or abandons his work, mutely following Young where he wants him to go. Still, he often finds himself leading the man by the arm, his fingers pinching lightly around the muscle just above his elbow.

Rush does not tolerate being touched by him in public, apart from this. The day after their first time, he’d attempted to rub Rush’s shoulder in passing, but the man had flinched and twisted away, eyes tracking to Brody and Eli manning the other consoles nearby. With a pang, Young had decided Rush was ashamed of their intimacy and afraid of the questions it might cause with the crew. When he’s come to care for someone, Young knows himself to be a very tactile lover, wanting to run his hands over his partner, to touch them in passing constantly, reaffirming their bond. He attempts to restrain himself, for Rush’s sake, not wanting to stress the man any further than he already is.

On nights when he feels he and Rush are up for it, he kisses him gently, one hand on the side of his face. Rush keeps himself clean-shaven now, to the best of his ability, after an off-hand compliment made weeks ago regarding Young’s preference. Young is touched by Rush trying to look nice for him. He enjoys rubbing his cheek against Rush’s smooth skin, licking a line from his throat up to the shell of his ear as he settles between his legs. Once Young has kissed him for some time, Rush will make a soft noise in his throat and twist over onto his elbows and knees, resting his cheek against the cool material of the pillow. Young remembers an old flame once explained this position is often more comfortable for the one on the bottom, and he knows that Rush is small, inside and out, so anything to make this easier is preferred.

Rush is quiet during their lovemaking, something that surprises Young, considering how vocal the man is about everything else. Instead, the smaller man lies there, bracing himself on his arms, making low sounds in his throat that stab straight at Young’s heart and lower still. He loves the feel of Rush shaking around him as he writhes between Young’s hand on his arousal and Young’s hardness inside of him. It takes Rush some time to get started, but Young attributes this to Rush’s diet and his never-ending tension. Eventually, the other man always comes around, relaxing as best as he is able beneath Young’s body while he groans out his release into the pillow.

This is working, Young tells himself. Rush is getting better at not flinching, getting better at eating and he doesn’t look so guarded and so afraid all the time. This is working, and Rush is learning that Young does not want to hurt him, does not want to leave him again, and does not want to punish him. He can see it in the way he turns himself over and leans up into Young’s hands, in the way he smiles faintly at nothing while they are eating. Young realizes eventually that he cares a great deal for Rush. He only hopes that this is Rush beginning to do the same for him.

~*~

Life on the Destiny is often dangerous, normally tense, and always stressful. Young comes to appreciate his evenings with Rush more and more, a warm, welcoming outlet to help calm his frazzled nerves and burn off the excess tension rattling through him. And if, some nights, Young is rougher or more desperate, who can really blame him? After close calls and near-misses, he finds himself gripping Rush’s hips a little tighter, teething his neck a little harder, angling his strokes to push a little deeper, while building up a delicious speed. The smaller man clutches at the pillows, making quiet, reedy sounds, his legs twitching, hips jerking up against Young’s in a counter-point to every thrust.

It is on one such night that everything comes undone.

The day had been worst than most, and Young had lost no time pushing the smaller man across the bed, working his fingers inside with a ruthless efficiency, unable to wait very long before pushing his way inside. His movements are slow, leisurely, but he presses deeper and deeper each time, trying to wring another cry from Rush’s throat after the breathy sound accompanying the first thrust. Rush is panting and trembling, hands fisted in the bedspread. He arches his back, whimpering as he shifts his hips forward, only to be drawn back roughly by Young’s hands.

Continuing his slow, brutally deep rhythm, Young bows over him, whispering in his ear how sexy Rush looks like this, how he doesn’t ever want to stop, and how he wishes he could have him like this all day, every day. He promises he will give him this forever, filling him and owning him and wanting him, with no end in sight. Aroused by his own litany, he begins to thrust harder, teeth raking over the nape of Rush’s neck, one hand on his wrist, the other in his hair.

Rush is shaking harder now, hips writhing against the bedspread as tiny, helpless gasps spill from his lips, half-smothered in the pillow. Young has never heard him make sounds like this before - high, reedy, and utterly desperate, as though he is struggling to breathe. Some of the sounds are bitten-off screams and he grinds himself down, listening for another one, as the sound goes straight to his gut, increasing his arousal ten-fold.

On a whim, Young slows his thrusts, withdrawing nearly all the way. Kneeling back, he turns Rush over, using one hand on his leg to push him around to lie on his back. He wants to see Rush’s face if he is going to make sexy, lewd noises like this, he decides, and he is plundering the other man’s mouth without a second thought.

For the first time since that first night, Rush is unresponsive to the kiss. Confused, Young twists in deeper, sliding fully inside the smaller man, searching for his tongue to spar with. Rush doesn’t move.

Young shifts back again in confusion, reaching out to cup Rush’s face in one palm. The man flinches, curling back in on himself. He twists his arms up to his chest, the same sharp gasps continuing to rattle him. Eyes closed, his face is screwed up in an expression of pure misery, tears leaking down his face to disappear in his hair.

He realizes with a start that Rush is sobbing and hyperventilating.

Instantly, he withdraws, wringing a low keening sound from the other man as he wraps him in his arms. He strokes the sobbing man’s hair, which only makes him cry harder. Rush does not return his embrace, his hands scabbering over his chest, clutching at his thin t-shirt as Young whispers reassurances into his hair.

Finally, Rush calms down, his breathing more even now. He shivers, not quite flinching out of Young’s embrace, but certainly not returning it. Gently, Young reaches down to tug the coverlet over their half-naked bodies.

“Rush… _Nicholas_ …” He whispers, touching his tear-streaked face. “What’s going on? What was that?”

“…Nothing…” Rush breathes, eyes impossibly wide, eyebrows drawn in an expression of near-panic. “Just got a bit overheated…”

“Rush,” He growls, eliciting another shiver from the body beneath his. “I know a panic attack when I see one. What’s wrong? Did something… happen?”

“No - no, of course not!” Rush sounds frightened now, shaking his hands placatingly, “Nothing happened. Just a bit under the weather, that’s all.”

It slams into him suddenly that Rush is afraid he is angry. He is visibly frightened that Young is going to be unhappy with him. For what? For having a panic attack? For crying?

“Tell me,” He says, clutching his shoulders tighter. He can hear the mistake in his voice, his concern making him sound rough, angry. Rush flinches again, pressing his neck down against his collarbone as he shies away again. “Rush…” He tries again, more gentle this time, not that the other man notices.

“…I told you. It’s fine. I’m fine. You may… We can continue…” He whispers hoarsely, another tear tracking across his cheek to disappear in his hair.

“Rush, no…” He snaps, annoyed at the suggestion.

The other man is looking down, between them, where he can see Young’s still half-hard against his thigh. “…Please…” He says softly, swallowing a lump in his throat that chokes him. Closing his eyes, he shifts, slowly parting his legs. One leg, still too thin, comes up to curl around Young’s hip, pressing their groins flush together.

However, he can feel Rush is soft, and the illusion of desire is shattered. “Rush!” He snarls, shaking him again.

Rush whimpers now, a few more tears slipping free. “…What do you want?!” He asks finally, voice soft and pitiable, his accent strong.

He blinks slowly, brown eyes wet and wide in the darkness, impossibly large on his narrow face, a flash of understanding creasing his brow. “…Oh. …I can… Please, just…” His hands come up, pressing weakly against Young’s collarbone, not the tight, desperate scrabble of their fight on that alien planet, but something soft and weak and utterly damaged. He makes another sound, a softer whimper, and Young cannot help but twitch downwards against his skin in response.

He closes his eyes against that tang of memory - the acrid dust of that world, the ringing in his ears as Rush fell away from him, unconscious in all that dirt. He remembers opening that hatch and catching the weakened, trembling man as he stumbled, half-carrying him to TJ, unable to believe the man had come back.

Rush’s desperate voice echoes up in his mind then and he realizes suddenly what must be going on.

“You don’t want to do this…” He murmurs, reaching down to brush Rush’s face with his fingertips.

Rush looks confused, paralyzed by indecision. With a sinking sensation, he realizes Rush can’t decide if this is an observation or a command. Snarling, Young shoves off of him, kicking free of the blankets and grabbing for his pants.

Sitting up, the smaller man clutches the blanket to his chest, looking horrified and completely frightened. “Colonel, please…”

“Jesus, Rush, what the hell are you doing?!” He shouts, whirling to pace away, trying to direct his anger anywhere but the man still trembling in his bed.

“…Colonel, please… Just… just come back to bed, and…”

“And what? I can rape you some more?!” He snaps, turning back at him, his hand stabbing in Rush’s direction.

The other man deflates, staring at the bedspread in his fists, silent.

Young comes closer, dropping to his knees and leaning heavily against the bed. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You don’t want this. You never did, did you? Why the hell didn’t you SAY ANYTHING?!”

“…You told me…” Rush begins, but he swallows the rest, curling back away from Young, one hand coming up to clench at his shoulder.

“ _Rush_ ,” He snaps, an imperative.

“…You told me it wasn’t with _work_ I’d be earning my place from now on…” He whispers.

“I didn’t mean you’d be earning it like this! Jesus, Rush, what kind of guy do you think I am?!”

But he knows what kind of man Rush believes him to be. A man who rewards on a whim. A man who leaves a civilian to die. A man who takes a subordinate to his bed, who never notices the tears and the tension, who thinks that what he is doing is for the best. Young feels like a monster, and although the word had tumbled out so easily, it sits like a stone in his chest. Rape.

How many times has he led Rush to his room? How many nights has he parted his legs, letting him smother his cries into the pillow as he presses inside? How many times has Rush pulled away, straining from that contact, twisting his hips in vain as he was taken, again and again? It has been months since Rush returned to Destiny. Months of intimacy, of ignoring all of the body language and the signs.

Pushing himself to his feet, Young is through the door before he can even formulate a direction to walk. Rush calls after him, but he ignores it, slamming the door control before storming away. He needs to think. He needs to be alone. He needs to hate himself. He needs a fucking drink.

~*~


	2. Mirror Version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overly-woobiefied Rush ahoy!

He tries to keep his breathing under control as Young leads him down the hallway. The other man’s hand is wide and warm on his arm, gripping him just above his elbow, propelling him down the hall and into Young’s quarters. He stumbles when he is all-but shoved in the direction of the sofa, but he manages to turn this into an awkward sit, clasping his hands together in his lap. He stares at his joined hands, watching with absent fascination as his fingernails dig into his palms. The sound of the lock engaging makes him jump and he squares his shoulders to hide his sudden nervousness.

The silence is oppressive and he moistens his lips carefully with the tip of his tongue. “…I’ve almost finished debugging the secondary sensors…” He offers softly, hating the desperation in his voice. “I only need a little longer with the weapons array. We’ve isolated one of the three problem areas. Once the repairs are complete, we can proceed to the next section.”

He tries not to flinch when Young swings close to him, but he still jerks back when the larger man drops to sit on the table in front of him. Their legs are almost touching now, and he can feel his body heat. “When was the last time … you slept, Rush?”

After clutching embarrassingly at the sofa, Rush gets a hold of himself and murmurs “…I’m fine.” He can feel the weight of Young’s gaze, the tangible nature of his displeasure radiating off of him, and he jerks his head up, eyes widening. “I’m doing my best, Colonel…” His voice wavers and he hates himself for this desperate weakness, this fear. But he can taste the air of that horrible planet, feel the gnaw of hunger in his chest, feel the coldness of space too oppressive and too wide, and he is afraid. “I’ve completed a third of the list already. I’ll have the rest done shortly.”

When Young doesn’t answer, he risks looking up, his hair half-covering his face. His heart sinks at the other man’s expression - jaw set, eyes hard, mouth grim. “I will finish it,” He whispers quickly, desperate to placate him.

Young reaches for him, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to twist away as the hand comes to curve against his cheek. He brushes his fingertips against his skin, smooth and then rough against his faint stubble.

“Rush… You don’t have to prove your worth to me by killing yourself with work.”

His instant relief is undercut by the sudden panic that Young is not being kind at all. He is not giving him relief - he is altering the game entirely. Now the stakes are something far greater than maintaining the ship.

He tries to get a hold of his hammering heart, rubbing his suddenly sweaty palms across his pants leg. Young is still touching his face, gently, hesitantly, and he knows exactly what this is implying, but he cannot quite wrap his head around it. With his eyes closed tightly, he cannot see Young move, but he feels it, hears it, just before lips close over his own.

Rush does not move as Young kisses him. He has only been kissed by a man one other time, a drunken impulse at a party that he had come to regard with embarrassment upon sobriety. Young’s kiss is self-assured and powerful, leaving him rattled to the core. When they pull apart, he ducks his head, hating the colour flushing his cheeks and wishing he were drunk this time as well.

He keeps his gaze lowered, not provoking Young in any way. Perhaps he will be satisfied with this forced intimacy, he thinks desperately, but Young is sighing and murmuring, “I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Rush…”

Swallowing his fear and his pride, he chokes out, “You won’t have to.” He will do what is required of him in order to remain aboard this ship. He cannot bear to be left behind again. His already-fragile mental state has been shattered by his harrowing experiences, and he cannot take more mistreatment now.

Young’s voice is thick and husky when he whispers, “I want to touch you…” Rush flinches and tries to keep his face impassive as he continues, “Rush, I want you. Here, on this ship. With me. Now.”

So this is it then. The terms are quite specific. “…I’m not stopping you.”

~*~

He tries to remain impassive as Young stands. He doesn’t move, can’t bring himself to move, and then there are arms around him, pulling and turning and suddenly he is in the air, being cradled to Young’s chest. He shudders with the explicit display of just how much weight and muscle mass he’s lost, curling his hands to himself to avoid touching Young. He won’t fight this, but he can’t encourage it.

The journey to the bed is blessedly and terrifyingly short. Young’s mouth is on his again, and he opens for him, turning his face up and half-heartedly returning the kisses. This is nothing like Gloria, and he brutally shoves those thoughts away, focusing instead on Young’s hands and his slight stubble against his own.

When Young’s hands steal under the edge of his shirt, he breaks the kiss with a gasp. His head is swimming with too many emotions and he is briefly disoriented when Young peels his layers of clothing from his chest.

He stares up at the other man, searching his face when he sees Young inhale at the sight of him. He knows what he must look like to the other man - scrawny, always, always hopelessly so, ribs too visible, muscles too slight. What solid bulk he had managed to maintain has vanished now, leaving him as naked as he had been as a child.

Rush bites back a sound as Young’s hands ghost down his sides and settle on his hips. He keeps them there a moment, thumbs tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Rush wishes he were still wearing his belt, but it fits awkwardly now, the leather shaped and worn into a figure he no longer possesses.

Finally, unable to bear this uncertainty any longer, he reaches down to touch Young’s arm, as lightly as he can. He keeps his eyes averted, trying to relax his body and appear as non-confrontational as possible. “…What do you want me to do?” He asks, choking on the lump in his throat. He is unsure what a man like Young prefers. Is he looking for a fight? Tears? Enthusiastic reciprocation?

“I want you to enjoy this, Rush. Let me do everything. Please.”

He nods, his eyes sliding shut. So he is to pretend to want this, but Young is merciful enough to allow him to close in on himself. He doesn’t think he could do more than this. It is all he can do to do only this.

Rush tries to lift his hips when Young unfastens his jeans, but he can’t force his tensed muscles to unlock well enough to be helpful. He is naked now, Young still fully clothed, and now their state of dress matches their mental state, he thinks wildly. He curls down in on himself, hands clutching at his chest and throat in an effort to ground himself, to distract himself from the touches he does not even want to think about, let alone feel.

When he begins to scratch at his own collarbone, he jerks his hand down to fall beside them. He will not clench the bedspread in his fist like some kind of romantic heroine. And then Young’s hand is between his legs, fingers wet and blunt and _huge_ and he freezes. A sound rushes out, tangling in the mess of tight, dry fright still blocking his throat, and he sounds like an animal about to be killed. Tries not to think about how true that really is.

He manages not to flinch when Young touches his face, too distracted by the fingers in a place he has never even considered. Young’s voice is deeper than he has ever heard it, a low, almost tender rumble, “Have you ever…?”

Ever what? Been sexually assaulted? Wanted to do this? Been forced to make choices he doesn’t want, can’t want, just because it is the only way to stay alive? He realizes, through these hysterical, entangled thoughts, that Young is asking if he has ever had sex with a man, and he manages to shake his head. He doesn’t trust his voice not to scream.

“It’s okay,” Young’s gentle voice is at odds with the intense expression on his face. Rush wonders what he is looking for when he stares at him like that, and desperately hopes he will find it so he will look away. “I know what I’m doing,” Young assures him.

Still not trusting his voice, he nods, swallowing hard at the choked sound of fear that is building in his throat, his chest, his everything. Rush bites his lip when pressure is applied to his entrance, trying to remember how to breathe.

“…Do you… Do you want me to stop?” Young’s voice is low and hard now, and he can hear the implicit challenge there. This is it. If he says yes, Young will strike him, shake him, laugh at him. He will have failed Young’s challenge and Young’s terms of survival. If he says no, allows him this facsimile of consent, perhaps Young will keep up this facade of tenderness, of gentleness. He does not think he can bear to be taken hard and cruelly.

He tries to shake his head, but it comes out as a nod, despite his best efforts. His voice is a whisper as he manages “…It’s fine…”

Rush cannot control the expression on his face as he is entered, breeched, and opened. Young’s kiss is a merciful relief at that point, offering up at least a bit of distraction from the separation of muscles and flesh and the blunt, tender pain of Young’s fingers inside him. It hurts, when Young stretches him, hurts more when he enters him, but Rush has shut down at this point. His tight throat strangles his desire to scream, and his determination kills his wild and wanton need to beg.

He can do this, he tells himself firmly. He _will_ do this. The heat of Young’s body is preferable to the cold vacuum of space. The scream dying unformed in his throat is preferable to the ashen taste in his mouth as he goes another day without food. The trembling as he is taken fully is preferable to shivering with cold, with terror, with isolation. He will do this. He will survive.

~*~

It is routine after that. As each long day staggers into night, Young finds him, no matter where he has tried to lose himself, tried to hide. The other man stands silently, waiting, until Rush completes his task or excuses himself. Then the hand is on his elbow and he is taken to the Colonel’s room.

Often, he is exhausted, and Young not much better. On these nights, mercifully, all that is required is his presence in the commander’s bed. He lays on his side, curled practically fetal, while Young wraps himself around him in a parody of intimacy. He often wakes to find Young staring at him, or worse, touching his face or his hair.

He cannot bear being touched by Young in public. He wonders how many of the crew has noticed - how many of them know of this arrangement? Does Young brag to his military comrades, here or at home, making jokes of his conquest of the once-feared mathematician? Once, Rush knows, he commanded a sort of respect, born of awe and fear and a lack of understanding of his skill sets and abilities. Now, he is a shell of that man, unable to summon that prickly shield of anger and arrogance. Instead, he cringes from sudden movements and jumps at loud noises, constantly searching the faces of his companions for signs of approval and acceptance.

Above all else, he is constantly on edge trying to please Colonel Young. He understands the dichotomy now - he knows well his place in this hierarchy. He is expendable, unnecessary. Young could easily leave him behind once more, without an alien ship to repair and salvage this time. He could simply lock him in a room, or force him into the unstable part of the ship. He could kill him with his bare hands and no one would say a word.

And so, he follows Young to his rooms each night without protest. He keeps his face impassive, his body pliant, as Young decides what to do with him each night, be it sleeping in a lover’s embrace, or kissing, which Rush does not find completely distasteful, or embraces of a more carnal nature.

When Young kisses him, he does his best to open himself up to the man as much as possible. He returns Young’s attentions with as much enthusiasm as he can muster - he seems to prefer it when Rush runs his fingers through his hair, close to his scalp; so he does, often, especially on nights when Young seems angry or unhappy.

One night, they lay side-by-side in the bed; Rush, trying to find a comfortable position that did not leave his aching lower body protesting, Young, a boneless mass of contentment at his side. The colonel reaches up to trace a palm across Rush’s beard, clearly contemplative. He swallows hard when he sees the furrow of the other man’s brow, trying to keep his voice neutral, “Colonel Young…?”

“How come you don’t really shave anymore?” He asks.

“…I don’t much think of it,” He admits. Between keeping the ship running smoothly and satisfying Young, he is left with little energy to keep up with self-maintenance. Young does not like it when he neglects to bathe or eat, but brushing his hair and shaving are often low on his lists of priorities. “Is there a problem?” He asks carefully, eyes searching the other man’s face apprehensively.

The colonel shrugs, letting his hand smooth down to cup around the side of Rush’s throat. “I like it better when you’re clean shaven. It makes you look younger… happier.”

Rush nods, glancing down at his hand for a moment, before licking his lips nervously. “…I’ll remember that.”

After that, he makes the effort to shave at least every few days, keeping his face as smooth as possible. Young seems to approve of this, and it leads to more kissing than sex, for which Rush is grateful. On the nights that Young kisses him, Rush does his best to pay close attention to the other man’s body. Once he feels him harden against his hip, he swallows his apprehension and turns over, kneeling or lying on the bed. He never looks at Young, and Young never tries to make him, content to take what is offered with minimal fuss.

It still hurts, what Young does to him, but the pain lessens over time. He becomes accustomed to being used and opened, managing to keep his tears and cries to himself. Young always reaches around to touch and fondle him, much to Rush’s dismay. He knows he is required to keep up the facsimile of consent, but this is almost too much for him. He hides his cheeks, burning with shame and humiliation, against the pillows, biting his lips or his hand to keep from crying out when he finishes. Young is always pleased when Rush comes, making soft sounds of approval and holding him more gently.

Sometimes, Rush can almost pretend that he doesn’t mind doing this. Colonel Young can be a thoughtful and intelligent man, and his obvious affection is, at times, gratifying. Sometimes the kissing is enjoyable; the sensation of hands in his hair, of arms around his waist - the raw, human contact, is something Rush finds he craves.

There are times when he is not terrified, does not hate what is being done to him. But there are times that come to shatter this sense of acceptance, of safety.

Some nights, Young is not gentle. When things go wrong, as things on Destiny often do, there is no kissing, no tenderness, no kindness. Young takes him to his room and presses him down on the bed, hands immediately stealing under his clothes to touch and prod and twist.

Rush does his best to be as still and pliant as possible on these nights, but he cannot help but pull away when Young’s grip is particularly rough, his thrusts particularly hard. It doesn’t matter - Young’s strong arms pull him back, pin him in place. He cannot escape the other man’s assault, so he endures.

And then, suddenly, everything falls apart completely.

He dreads returning to Young’s quarters that night. He can see the tension in his shoulders, read the tightness of his jaw as he strides, stiff and serious, down the hall. Once inside, Young pushes him across the bed immediately, already unfastening his clothes before he has even settled his weight.

Young enters him too soon and much too roughly, making him cry out as tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. The day has been hard on Rush, leaving him scattered and exhausted, lost inside his own mind. His adrenaline is all-but gone, leaving him feeling tender and raw, exposed completely as Young takes him hard, without a trace of the gentle pseudo-romance he usually favors.

He tries to crawl away from Young, struggling for the first time, but too tired to do so in earnest. He is drawn back easily, so easily he doubts Young has even noticed his resistance. It doesn’t matter what he wants, he knows. It never does. But he is so tired and so adrift from the day’s strains that he cannot bear this.

When Young begins to talk, voice guttural and gritty in his ear, Rush starts to shake despite himself. Young continues, his tension unnoticed, reciting a list of the things he would love to do to him. “I wish I could just keep you here, like this, just for me… God, you’re so fucking perfect. We were made for this… I can’t give you up, Rush… You’re too fucking perfect like this…”

The words strike him, straight to his core. Young is right, he realizes. He could keep him like this, forever. The painful realization that this is his life now cuts him to the quick. He will never be free of Young, of this arrangement. He will never be free of the pain and the fear and the uncertainty, the constant reading of another man’s face, body, and mood, just to survive another day. Each day he survives is just another day that Young can force him into whatever he likes, and this sinks into Rush like a stone.

The trembling becomes full-body wracking, and Rush realizes with a growing horror that he cannot breathe. His throat feels tight, his veins standing out. He tries to suck in a breath, but his lungs won’t expand. The tears that have been threatening are falling now, staining the pillow, smearing across his face. He manages to take some air in tiny, desperate gasps, each one wrung from him sharply as Young thrusts harder and faster. There is only the grip in his hair, the tight fist pinning his wrist to the bed, and the hard, stabbing discomfort inside him as he struggles and fails to breathe.

He is completely lost when he feels Young withdraw. He is dimly aware of being turned on his back, but the constriction in his chest only increases at this angle, making him gasp harder. He can feel his blood beating against the inside of his skull and suddenly Young’s tongue is in his mouth and he cannot _breathe_.

Rush moans, a low, tortured sound, when Young pulls out of him. He can feel Young’s arms around him, but he only sobs harder, unable to cope with this constant sensory input. He wants to be released, wants Young to _stop touching him_ as he tries to get his breathing under control. He clutches at his own t-shirt, pulling the collar hard away from his neck.

After an eternity, his body relaxes in increments, air finally moving unrestricted. He lays there, tense and frozen in the other man’s arms, dreading the barrage of questions or anger he knows must be forthcoming.

“Rush…” Young says his name softly, before trying again, “ _Nicholas_ …” Rush flinches when he touches his face; even though the gesture is gentle, he is braced for it to become a blow. “What’s going on?” Young continues, “What was that?”

He tries to swallow the sudden burst of fear, feeling the sweat on the back of his neck prickle and run down his skin. “…Nothing…” He says softly, barely audible. He searches Young’s face, trying to read his mood. “Just got a bit overheated,” He lies.

“Rush,” Young growls his name, low and thick, making him curl back again in apprehension. “I know a panic attack when I see one. What’s wrong? Did something… happen?”

He can see the concern in his face - he is worried someone has _hurt him_. What is he worried about? That someone might have _forced him_? This realization makes him want to laugh hysterically, but he swallows it when he sees Young’s expression harden into anger. “No - no!” He stutters, lifting his hands, palms up, fingers spread, “Nothing happened. Just a bit under the weather, that’s all.” He tries to muster as much sincerity as possible, hoping this is enough to appease the other man’s obvious anger at having been denied his pleasure.

Young’s eyes track over his face, expression settling into something stern but otherwise emotionless. Rush feels the blood drain from his face as Young catches him by the shoulders. “Tell me,” He orders, voice hard and low. He cannot help but flinch at that tone, ducking his head away to protect his throat should Young move his grip upwards. Young says his name again.

“…I told you,” He whispers, feeling another tear tracking down his face, slipping into his damp hairline. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You may…” He swallows the sudden bile in his throat, eyes sliding away from the other man’s, “We can continue…”

When Young snaps at him, he glances down, between their bodies. Young is leaning over him, still half-hard against his leg. He has never left the colonel unsatisfied before. He doesn’t know what kind of punishment such a mistake might incur. “Please…” He pleads, trying to breathe as his throat closes up once more.

Rush closes his eyes and slowly, painfully slowly, spreads his legs for the other man. Shifting his hip, he raises his leg to wrap around Young, pulling them together again.

Young responds by snarling, a low, angry sound, shaking him hard by the shoulders.

He shatters. He cannot do this. He doesn’t know what’s going on - nothing he tries to do seems to please the other man. “What do you want?!” He sobs finally, curling back in on himself. He has done everything he can to be pliant and accommodating - what is it Young _wants_?!

It dawns on him that perhaps that is the problem after all - Young is riled up, clearly tense and volatile, wanting to blow off steam. Perhaps it is not compliance he is looking for this time. “…Oh,” He whispers, comprehension staining his voice, “…I can… Please, just…”

Rush lifts his arms then, pressing them as hard as he dares against Young’s shirt. His hands are claws in the material now as he struggles weakly and timidly to push the other man away. His next attempt at pleading sweetly comes out as a strangled sound of fear and he can feel Young’s appreciation for the display against his thigh.

Fingertips brush his face; tracing the track his tears have left, before ghosting down to touch his lips. “You don’t want to do this…” Young murmurs, speculatively, as though the idea has just occurred to him.

He freezes, staring up at the man leaning over him. He can see the moment Young becomes unhappy, see it in the narrowing of his eyes and the way he hollows his cheeks sucking in a breath. In a flash, Young is off of him and out of the bed, a rumble of angry air rushing out of him in the process.

Rush panics then, trembling outright again, not sure what is going on and how he has mucked this up so badly. “Colonel, please…”

“Jesus, Rush, what the hell are you doing?!”

He flattens himself against the headboard, making his body as small as he can as Young’s anger fully materializes. This is the man who beat him on that planet, the man he has been trying to avoid all this time. “Colonel, please… Just… just come back to bed, and…”

“And what? I can rape you some more?!”

Rush feels his heart sink and lowers his gaze. He watches his hands fist and clench rhythmically against the bedspread. So this is it, then. His performance has finally become unsatisfactory. He wonders if Young will kill him, or abandon him, or just beat him and take him roughly. He tries not to pull away as Young drops to his knees beside him.

“That’s what this is, isn’t it? You don’t want this. You never did, did you? Why the hell didn’t you SAY ANYTHING?!”

Confusion constricts his tongue now as his mind reels, trying to find an answer that is honest but not to inciting. “…You told me…” He grips his agonizingly stiff shoulder in one hand, biting back his words, uncertain and afraid.

“ _Rush_ ,” Young’s voice is harder than he has heard it in months. Not since Young had gripped him by the arm and insisted he come with him to view the kino footage of Spencer’s suicide.

“…You told me it wasn’t with _work_ I’d be earning my place from now on,” He whispers.

Young’s face crumples into shock, to disbelief, and finally, to outrage. “I didn’t mean you’d be earning it like this! Jesus, Rush, what kind of guy do you think I am?!”

He can see the trap explicitly in the words, so he says nothing. He doesn’t understand Young’s sudden outbursts, his sudden anger and disbelief. What had he done, or not done, to break the fragile peace they’d managed to forge? Rush cannot tell what Young wants him to do or say and the lack of direction after months of careful structure leaves him adrift.

Before he can call after him, Young is suddenly up and out the door. Belatedly, he calls the man’s name, but the door slams shut before he is even finished biting out the word. He sinks down to his back in the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Abandoned again, but at least this time, only in a bed. …For now.

~*~


End file.
